


Keep Your Smiles

by Super_Scene_It



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, johnny's really moody and mean and im sorry, send hugs for peter (he really needs them)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:45:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Super_Scene_It/pseuds/Super_Scene_It
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny's smiles have Peter feeling all kinds of ways. Ways that are more complicated than he'd be willing to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Smiles

**Author's Note:**

> i was supposed to be working on a sequel to another spideytorch fic but then this happened and well... sorry not sorry??

“I knew you'd show up,” Johnny said. He wore that smile Peter knew he picked out just to spite him. That one little smirk he tucked away warm and safe, all the way in the back of some higher shelf, steamed and pressed and ready for wear, ready to unload and destroy. Once Johnny set the bomb firmly in place it ticked down from a two second timer and blinded and swooned, and Peter hated himself for liking it. A tactical error on his part.

 

Even if he'd actually tried Peter couldn't stop himself from entangling his arms together high across his chest, spitting out enough heat to burn the building to the ground. “I didn't come for you.”

 

Johnny was holding back an eye roll, Peter could tell in the way he blinked to the side. “Yeah... sure you didn't.”

He exuded this sort of impenetrable confidence that stripped and robbed everyone else of what little they had. Like he was absorbing it and exploiting it for his own selfish purposes. Peter could feel himself deplete and sag in the same way a balloon would from the gradual loss of helium. He felt so naked in that moment. He fingered and tugged at the rim of his mask enclosed around his stiffed neck, ensuring it was still there, still perfectly in place; because the way Johnny was looking at him, it was like he could see everything he owned.

 

He tried one more time and prayed his voice could fake it better than that laugh Johnny was pushing out. “It's true, I came for the—uh—coffee. Some good stuff right here.”

He wrapped his clammy gloved fingers around a nearby cup propped up on the table. Half empty, partially cold, multiple lipstick marks stained along the edges: all signs it was most likely abandoned by a previous owner. Eww. Definitely picked the wrong cup of the bunch. He avoided Johnny's eyes, deciding it better not to know if he had seen or not, if only for the sake of his own self-preservation, no matter how temporary. Either way though, he was so thankful it not only served as an excuse but doubled in a way that gave his hands something to do.

 

Johnny's eyes murdered him right where he stood. “Right.” He re-aligned his smile to accommodate the note, stretching the word out, pulling it to a far off distance with enough force as to snap it like a rubber band; the recoil stinging Peter's cheeks leaving raw, permanent marks in its wake. In the aftermath, he could feel rather than see the gaze prodding him with blood stained spears, aiming straight for his jugular with the immaculate precision of a Spartan warrior.

 

It was more than apparent he had noticed and Peter wanted to melt into a puddle of sheer embarrassment. His sweaty clutch tightened and the foam squeaked at its symmetrical breaking points.

“It's true,” he choked out, suddenly becoming hyper aware of the sound of his own voice and cringing from the way it creaked like an old cabin door in some dire need of oil.

 

Booted feet, though not of his own, laid across Peter's vision now as he kept his eyes trained to the floor, making sure to keep his head held up just enough for the other to assume they were within range. A sigh pierced the silence, creating a wave in the ocean of avoidance Peter immersed himself into neck deep. With the shuffle of feet, Johnny somehow knew where Peter's sight set, and his patience, much like him, only stuck around for so long. Knowing that, Peter-- giving Johnny the attention his next coming sigh felt he so rightfully deserved-- slowly worked his way up the length of the view before him, taking it all in with the powerful suction of a vacuum, quick to snap mental pictures he hoped he would be able to recall at a later point without excluding any single detail, as each held significant importance no matter how minor.

His mind buzzed and slowed to a halt when his eyes latched onto Johnny's handsome face. The outer surface held one of mocked amusement while an interior expression relayed a message Peter couldn't easily decrypt.

 

“You're a terrible liar,” Johnny said. The bluntness and matter-of-fact way he let it roll off his tongue had Peter imagine he was sucking on it like a cheap hard candy of his least favorite flavor. “And that's sayin' a lot for a guy who has such a huge advantage from that permanent poker face of yours.”

Johnny wasn't smiling anymore and Peter was torn between gratitude and a severe sense of loss. From some dark void in the depths of his chest he'd quietly wish it back into existence. To hold it in the palm of his hands with the power to plug it into the compartment of Johnny's face like he was his very own Mr. Potato Head. He'd wish for that condescending smile just to trade it in place of the ability to completely disappear.

 

“I mean, seriously, are you even trying anymore?” The last words intermingled with a laugh that almost sounded authentic and Peter could feeling himself burning up inside. The acidic compounds sizzling its way up to his mouth had him swallowing down a cough tickling the back of his throat.

Johnny had absolutely no idea how hard he was trying or even just how hard he was making it. And he held no mercy, pulling out another smirk from off the rack, trying it on for good measure. It suited him well, looked good on him, in fact, and it had Peter wondering for just how long Johnny had been wanting to put it on; just how patient had he been to enact this punishment. The bare teeth glimmered, tearing at every little insecurity Peter carried on his back. Even the ones no one knew about.

 

“C'mon, Spidey. You can tell me.” Johnny had this new demeanor to him that couldn't be described in any other way besides dangerous. His voice was low, nearing the border of seduction, and Peter could hear it echoing somewhere in the back of his mind telling him things he didn't think he was supposed to be hearing. Smirk still set in place without a single falter, alert and prepared to bite if offered a finger; he was creeping dangerously close with this lingering twinkle in his eye that had Peter shrinking under the radiance of. “What're you _really_ here for?”

 

The cold liquid seeping out of the beaded cracks along the dividing zig-zags of the foam cup triggered and revived a part of Peter's brain that had shut down some time during the interaction. His senses kicked in long enough for him to detach his soaked hand from the now empty cup, its previously contained contents swimming freely in a steady stream dripping carelessly to the floor.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Peter foolishly figured that if he had said it loud enough it might actually be true. He had tried to instill some faith in himself, putting in the extra effort to buffer and smooth the edges of his words before he'd allow them to leave his mouth. They flowed along his tongue without a flaw only to backfire like a faulty handgun once they fell past his lips. The roughest of edges exploited themselves in favor of the other man. Disloyal vocals showing their true colors in moments most inconvenient to their master.

 

“You don't actually think I believe that, do you?” Johnny was still playing in his sandbox and there was something in the way he said it that formed some type of expectation in Peter's mind. Some kind of shower of familiar excitement that bubbled in the anticipation of oncoming contact where the routine would take place. He waited for Johnny to make his move, to take charge like he always did. But he wasn't doing the things he'd usually do. He was still, cementing into an ancient statue collecting dust upon display; and that's when Peter realized he was waiting, too. It seemed out of the ordinary that they were waiting on one another to make the next move, taking turns to spit out words when the relationship they've established was so far beyond these pleasantries, though, in afterthought, perhaps not above this twisted foreplay.

 

When the pressure sunk in and Johnny's stance shifted in tiresome, he didn't know what to do, how Johnny wanted him to react, so Peter shrugged in response, resorting to body language, unwilling to suffer from further verbal betrayal. Instantly he regretted the motion along with all the silly expectations he'd accustomed himself to, feeling it all shrivel away and die at the bottom of his heart among the rest of his disappointments where Johnny extracted himself from his personal space.

 

Johnny felt so far from him now. Out of range. Out of reach. Peter watched him, confounded, as he seemed to be swimming further and further away from him. Departing with the only life jacket as to leave Peter behind to drown. And suddenly Peter couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't do much of anything but just watch Johnny drift away.

 

“Why do I always have to be the one to make all the moves?” Johnny was saying, kicking his feet along the invisible sand blanketing the tiles. He was twisting on his heels, mimicking Peter's shrug in constant dramatized strides. “What does that even mean?”

He sounded hurt but looked angry, and Peter hadn't even noticed when that smirk he held in such pride mere moments before had packed its bags and boarded a plane to some undisclosed location Peter was certain it would never return from.

Johnny was still standing in the middle of the empty room, face deprived of its ultimate weapon, eyes briefly sweeping over the doors where its guests had departed through hours earlier. Peter didn't understand the contemplation, not at first, not until Johnny sighed, dropping himself onto one of the many foldable chairs that didn't make the place feel so empty.

Slouching forward, elbows digging into his knees, his head sank into his palms, blond strands blindly following the gravity that viciously pulled them towards the floor.

Even from the distance, the picture seemed wrong: the palette off, their likeness distorted. This isn't the scenario that was supposed to play out. This isn't what they do.

 

Peter found his voice somewhere in the echo of Johnny's huff, and gave it the redemption it was pleading for.

“I don't know,” was all he said. His tongue felt dry and sloppy, a salted slug dying in agonizing pain pressed up against the roof of his mouth.

The chair glided with a cringing shriek along the floor when Johnny carelessly slammed himself to the backrest. Fixed annoyance not only showed itself in the image he carefully constructed across his face, it rang in his tone with the addition of frustration as a generous bonus. “You don't know _what_?”

 

Peter imitated his earlier motion with the casual rise and drop of shoulders, the same Johnny had mocked insultingly just moments prior. “I don't know what it means,” Peter clarified, feeling himself timid.

There was so much more Peter wanted to tell him, things his voice wouldn't allow him to say. “I just...”

Allowing the words to be swooped up by the wind like a weightless feather, he felt so small under Johnny's watch and it was almost like he could feel his judgment criticizing him for all his pathetic wants and needs.

He spread his arms to the open space, welcoming the chilled air seeping in through the thin fabric stretching across his muscles from the abrupt gesture. Peter held his head high though his volume carried out low and gradually fell the moment his hands slapped against his thighs. “I don't even know what I'm doing here.”

His whisper gently floated through every hall within the vacant building, greeting every empty room, splashing vibrant colors on every shadow cast upon the plain walls. It lingered far beyond its welcome but Peter accepted the silence until Johnny's voice was throwing blazed daggers across the room. “Yes you do.”

Johnny's eyes always had a way of showing Peter things he didn't know he needed to see, finished the sentences neither of them could complete. He hadn't expected it but this time it wasn't Johnny's blue eyes that told him what he needed to hear. It was his harsh voice that sang to the inner parts of Peter that longed to hear it, the same parts that wished he'd never said it. Johnny's searing glare tore at him, ripping him open, eating him from the inside out like a feral animal desperate to satisfy his hunger in the midst of a snowstorm.

 

Behind the eye lens of his mask, Peter fought to keep the thick line blurring his vision from overflowing and spilling over onto his veneer of composure that had long began to crack a little. The circles they were running in were making him dizzy and Peter wished Johnny would just tell him what he wanted from him. “What do you want from me?”

The strings bridging the letters together snapped, scattering them into a game of scrabble. Still, upon quick assembly they hadn't lost their impact, that much was evident. It was through the face of pure and utter dismay peering back at him where courage floated back in like a lost soul reuniting with its long lost body. But Peter shut it in behind sealed tight lips and felt it escape when Johnny tripped over the line of sanity and into the realm of hysterics. His laugh wasn't out of humor, but out of spite with an overt mission to wound. Strained and struggling to level the monotonous ring that chimed more like a sad tune rather than the robotic dead end of a punchline it was intended to be, Johnny couldn't maintain the faux hilarity and cut it off before it could shake with feeling. Between the midst of it all, Peter'd be lying if he said it didn't drill a hole through his beating heart.

 

 

“I don't even know you,” Johnny half sneered with the cold bitterness he drove out from the frozen depths of his core.

In the way that his features rocked on unsteady legs, Peter could see it hurt Johnny more to admit it than it hurt Peter to hear it. The mask was a boarder between them, a protection, a separation that impeded full ownership over one another. And Peter wasn't sure why Johnny was faulting him for his own refusal, misplacing the blame for what Johnny had willingly kept from himself, turning away from the offer Peter had made to him all those years ago, because if he didn't look then he wouldn't have to admit he felt anything.

Had he felt anything at all?

Johnny always pressed for more. More kissing, more touching, more partners, more places, more exploring. This was just another one of those places. Yet, it wasn't enough; it could _never_ be enough. He always wanted more, _would_ always want more.

Just never the kind of more Peter wanted though. Johnny wouldn't give him the satisfaction because it wasn't about him. It never was.

Peter wondered if his face or a drop of a name would be enough. It'd be all he had left to give and although he isn't sure if he's deserving of it, still, if Johnny asked, Peter'd give it to him anyway.

All he had to do was ask and, oh, how badly he wanted Johnny to ask.

But he never did, and Peter wasn't sure if he ever would.

 

Johnny leant forward, head cocked slightly to the side. "So what the hell makes you think _I'm_ the one who wants something here?" 

Harsh bitterness, mean and shrill, seethed out between perfect pearled teeth and it stung like salt on an open wound, seeping in through the jagged slats carved into Peter's chest. It flashed him back to a time that suddenly didn't feel so long ago.

 _~"Why are_ you _the one who gets to decide what this is?"_

_~"Why can't you just leave things alone?"_

Peter never could leave well-enough alone, now could he? Never could content himself with just the flirts, those devouring smiles and warm lingering touches. There was a beast inside him that always hungered for something more, and he wasn't as strong as Johnny to fight it off.

Scrutinized through narrowed vision, Peter could feel himself shrinking to microscopic size. He knew all along why he was here, why he had come. Johnny had known too, yet, still, Peter had told his lies, to Johnny and to himself, unconvincing to either party.

 

Johnny waited, not so much for an answer of any form, but just waited for something Peter imagined would be a sign. A sign that it wasn't all for nothing.

In the silence of Johnny's eyes, Peter thought he saw something: a plea, a curiosity, a longing, a reflection of his own suppressed desperation, perhaps. Was this him asking?

A flicker of something passed over, granting unspoken permission, but as quick as it came, it was gone, and Peter wasn't sure if it had ever even been there in the first place. Maybe he was just reading things wrong, feeding himself more lies, seeing the things he wanted to see like he always tended to do; filling in the blanks where their story was left unwritten because Johnny wouldn't pass the note back, instead crumbling it up into a tiny ball to bury it in the side pocket of his favorite black jacket where it'd be long forgotten before the bell rang. In all his uncertainty, Peter didn't know why he was putting action to it.

It was when Johnny's eyes fell into the abyss staring into the face of nothingness, that Peter found himself moving, a passenger to his own motions. Forward, toward Johnny, closer and closer, every step aching his bones, creaking his joints. Deep within he felt himself flutter from something held dormant inside. Something that was always there, finally stretching its wings and waking up. He sought the feeling, his body finally ceasing movement, embracing the freedom of his fingers tucking away beneath the seal of his mask with every intent of ripping it up and over his head.

 

Before he could carry out the action completely Johnny stopped him, a searing grip shackling Peter's wrists, a suiting treatment for the prisoner he was. At full speed Johnny drove past the sign without looking back, holding Peter there, mask resting gently across his nose bridge, right where it always should have been.

 

“Don't insult me.”

Every syllable to the command spewed fire, and in the wake of the burn Peter suddenly understood: where his symbolism was trying to claim ownership, this was Johnny telling him he didn't belong to him. Not now, for which Peter feared meant probably not ever. A simple fact; old news that seemed to never age. Still the harsh realization hit him as fresh as it did the very first time and the every other time that followed, that this was the way things were and this was the way things _had_   to be, would _always_ be. You either play the game right or you don't play at all, because Johnny's the kind of guy you can't hold in your hand, the kind of guy that only gives you so much and you can barely grasp onto what little he gives you before he's taking it away. He's free, he's meant to be free so it's insulting when you try to tie him down and make him yours, it's insulting when you don't accept what he's giving, it's insulting when you make assumptions.

It's insulting when _you_ ask for more.

 

"I thought you wanted this."

The trembling of his lips rocked the words as to balance them on their jagged edges at the tip of a needle, and in the eyes peering back at him Peter felt himself falling farther and farther away from where he'd meant to be; from where he had meant to keep himself. What Peter had meant to do in efforts of bringing them closer, ended up bridging a gap between them, miles long.

Instead of seeking redemption, here he was practically shoving Johnny back into the arms of the world to let the people of the public have their way with him, the ones Johnny had already promised himself to, because-- pushing people away, even when he wasn't meaning to-- that was all Peter was ever really good at. He was pushing and pushing and didn't even realize what he was doing until he was already doing it, until it was already too late. So he goes with what he knows and pushes and pushes even though he knows that when they get him they'll grab hold of him with no intent of ever letting him go. But he's still pushing anyway and Johnny won't pull, won't help drag this thing across the finish line so Peter gives up, and he'll tell himself it's better this way. It's safer from the distance, in the shadows shrouding his feelings, where Peter could patiently wait and watch over him; ready to jump when he called, embarrassingly desperate to steal a moment with a person he had to share to have; vying to claim whole possession of that of which didn't belong to him.

The weakened grip from Johnny's hand lifted the pressure off Peter's chest, releasing the hope he'd held onto the moment he entered the room.

 

"You think you know everything."

Every letter dragged along his skin like the dull end of a blade, breaking the delicate flesh deep enough to heal over into an ugly scar. Washing upon Johnny's face was an expression that froze his features to ice, stilling it to neutrality, however, the twin blue eyes looking back at Peter read a lot more like disappointment than anything else. It hurt to see, but too painful to pull his gaze from all the same, so Peter kept it there until his tears mounting up along his line of vision were blurring that handsome face beyond recognition. Johnny was melting the cold truth, liquidating it as to shape it to a new form, one you couldn't step over without stepping in it, soaking wet against your skin, permanent dampness that would never dry, imprinting itself there as a grim reminder of what this really is.

His desperation, his naivety, his hopes, his expectations: Peter hated himself for all of it. And deep down he knows Johnny does too. 

Johnny dug his smile back up from the garbage where he'd left it, utilizing his expertise to craft it into something different that didn't mirror anything Peter has seen before. A mishap that he clearly hadn't meant to advertise, for the shortest moment it appeared broken and fragile; unrecognizable from any angle one could study it from. The way it shifted at the corners suggested the progress of reconstruction, though the unsteadiness exposed his difficulties with the task. Despite its flaws, however, he still wore it with the spare confidence he carried in his back pocket, wore it as if it was placed there on purpose, like it wasn't crinkling at the edges even after he attempted to put an iron to it. His efforts instilled a sort of admiration within his audience of one, and for once Peter denied him the praise he silently asked for.

With the repairs complete, equipped and fully functional, some other agenda hidden underneath pooled to the surface in a blink of an eye, transforming it into something hard and mysterious, something hungry and terrible that would surely dispute the category it was classified under: smile being too nice a word. It was spread tight across his face, methodically sealed shut to keep the sightseer in wonder of what was being held beyond those doors. In the face of this new smile, Peter quietly mourned the ones he had come to know. The many he had liked to believe Johnny didn't share with anyone else but him, even though the curves replacing its memory showed him otherwise. The delicate corners of his mouth simpered the cold truth that if Peter didn't satisfy him then someone else would.

 

Words went unspoken, but something was said during the silence.

 

Johnny's eyes were speaking to him, speaking to the unreadable lens of his mask that had no power to converse, the one of many privileges Johnny denied himself of mere moments ago. But those bright blue eyes weren't asking for a response in turn, they were giving a demand that required action.

 

Peter nodded against his better judgment and meant to say something, the things his eyes were trying to say and Johnny couldn't see, but his voice caught in the middle of his throat, weighted by an anchor heavier than Peter could lift. Where words wouldn't suffice, Peter gave Johnny's hands the power to tell him what to do. They led him to his knees like they always did and he gave Johnny what he wanted, what he had come for. Then, when he was done, Johnny left, taking his smiles with him.

 

 


End file.
